


The Time Drabbles

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five drabbles of a hundred words each: Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, Years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time Drabbles

  
_Hours_

When John was younger he used to worry about how many times he could do it in one night.

Now he doesn’t care. As long as he gets it up—and with Sherlock he always does—statistics don’t matter. What matters is here, this space, their bedroom, filled with the tangy, sweet, heady smell of sex, with their panting and the wet sounds of flesh. There are no numbers between start and finish. There’s just an in-between, when time itself stretches, when John stretches Sherlock, stretches under Sherlock, and they stretch around each other, alive, like Gods of eternal youth.

***

 _Days_

On average Sherlock takes two days to solve a case. His priorities on those days have been fixed for years. Sex is a new component. The Carmichael case begins and the new component anchors itself at the bottom of the list.

However, when the case is over, Sherlock finds his post-case priorities go haywire. He shuts the door behind his profusely grateful client and turns to John. John tilts his head in that curious way of his and opens his mouth to speak—and all Sherlock wants is to get on all fours and make John curse like a soldier.

***

 _Weeks_

It’s absurd, juvenile—yet they’re doing it. Three weeks. John can’t fathom what possessed him to think that making a bet about denying himself sexual pleasure was _a good thing_.

Sherlock takes on wearing obscenely thin pyjama bottoms. He strains and pivots in his fitted shirts. He goes to the sodding shop, buys honey, dips his middle finger to the second knuckle, and sucks on it. John stands it all.

One afternoon he comes home earlier and finds Sherlock asleep, showered curls combed back, baring his serene face. Sixty seconds later John’s nose is pressing rhythmically into Sherlock's pubic hair.

***

 _Months_

Sherlock notices it eventually, but not through observation. It’s by accident. In an awkward attempt to pull up the sheet he somehow entangles John’s hands in it. John’s throat jumps and his breath dances furtively. Rueful, Sherlock reflects on the detrimental effects that love and love-making have on one’s mental faculties. They’ve wasted _months_.

The next time he fucks John, he grabs both of his wrists and roughly pins them up. John lets out a guttural moan and throws his head back, his body going maddeningly taut and tight. Sherlock smirks, then pushes his jaw forward and shoves in harder.

***

 _Years_

John could shave Sherlock in a blink—he knows Sherlock’s face as well as his own. He takes his time, though. It’s like flying over smooth sea, after swooping down along sharp rocks. His touch can cut but glides carefully instead.

Sherlock has stilled under John’s hands, his own bandaged hands in his lap. His eyes are on John’s face. His look can cut but glides carefully instead. John’s heart suddenly frets; he hushes it and lets Sherlock watch him, years of familiarity momentarily shaved off between them . John licks his lips.

“Finish this quickly, will you?” Sherlock murmurs, close.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Written as an exercise in restraint after the four-month marathon of writing 67,000 words for "The Poster Girl". Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/31956.html


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